


While the rhythm of the rain keeps time

by ultraviolence



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3776626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twins plans to meet and have some drinks together. As it turns out, Artemis is late, it's raining cats and dogs, and Apollo is worried. Modern AU, part of my ongoing modern gods series. Gratuitous fluff. Oneshot. Warning: may contained ubiquitous references of a certain Fall Out Boy song and Fall Out Boy. T for some kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While the rhythm of the rain keeps time

**Author's Note:**

> So I was given a prompt at Tumblr to write something involving: a) the mythic trash twins, b) having a casual hangout, and c) copious amount of FOB references. This happened. Comments, suggestions, and critiques welcome! Not really part of the Underworld Breakfast Club but I'll put it there anyways. xx

She’s late. He checks his watch (he was so over his Rolex phase, no matter what the others said) and allowed himself one more glimpse at the street, under the ever-darkening sky. It was quite a downpour, and he was taking a shelter under a florist’s awning (after first checking that it doesn’t belong to anyone he knows). He did have an umbrella (believe it or not, he’s the responsible twin, despite what the others said yet again, or at least he’d fancied himself as such), but the bar where they’re supposed to meet was just across the street, and he had the oddest feeling that he was supposed to meet her here. That is how it feels like, there, being twins – it’s clichéd, but he just _knows_. Being the god of oracles doesn’t help. And it wasn’t just him – he could remember a couple of times when he needed her the most and she appeared at the right time in the right place, in the midst of the bustling city or somewhere on one of the night clubs littering the city, the not-yet suburbs and Chinatown, the shopping street and his doorstep. At this point, after time has blurred into a distant point like a fast-moving train carriage, he was quite certain that being gods doesn’t have anything to do with that.

Because it’s always them.

Apollo craned out his neck into the downpour and cast the still-bustling street yet one more look. Normal people would have called, but this is his sister – all she had that resembles a mobile was an old Nokia phone that wasn’t even being produced anymore (again, despite what they said, he knows his news) that, miraculously, still worked, year after year. He’d been pushing her for literally _ages_ to get a newer model (when he found out that they made iPhone 5S in gold, he just had to have that, but then iPhone 6 came along), but she’d just shook her head and look at him in that way that was so…Artemis-esque. Then called him a cad. He tried to suppress a smile at the memory, and supposedly maybe there is a certain…symmetry, between her and her old but reliable and still working mobile phone.

As if sensing his thoughts, out from the downpour, heading towards his direction, was his sister. She didn’t carry an umbrella with her, and obviously she was dripping wet, but she walked with the gait of someone who’d uncovered the mystery of the rain, and is now as much a part of it as the water. Now _that_ was going to be in his next poem. Of course, as much as she loved the rain, or at least doesn’t mind being soaked in it, he still worry – and this worry was what spurred him to unfold his umbrella and walked over to her, if not run.

“Art!” He called out, pulling her next to him underneath the umbrella. “You’re going to get sick, rain-walking like that.”

She allowed herself being pulled over by him, and slowly arched an eyebrow at him. “So it is a _yellow_ umbrella now?” 

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “You do have something against umbrellas, don’t you?” 

“Just yours.” She chuckled, leading the way. (She _is_ older, after all.) “Why don’t you wait for me at the bar?”

“Because I know you’re gonna pull off some stupid stunt.” He groaned again, disgruntled, slowly directing them to another direction. “I thought that you only do that to impress the girls?”

“Says the tree-hugger.” The other twin snickered. “How’s it going, brother? You still chasing some unwilling nymph, they got turned into concrete this time?”

“Ouch.” If it were somebody else, he’d beat the shit out of them. But as it stands, he dramatically clutched his heart. “You’re still as mean as ever, Art.”

Her eyes tinkled underneath the streetlamp. “And you’re still a cad.” She said, so soft he almost couldn’t hear it above the noises of the city around them. (Although at that point, he swore the sounds of the city becomes as distant as time, but that might be the poet in him speaking.)

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t trade me for anyone else in the world.” They had stopped, at some point, and maybe the world had suddenly decided to tune itself down, like in those clichéd romance movies. They huddled close together, shoulders pressing to each other, her long black coat brushing against his. Her silver-ish hair (for she was even blonder than him, which he often joked about) had grown long (but she will probably cut it again soon, since she can’t stand having long hair for long). It was untamed, much like her, but for this occasion she tried to tie it back in a ponytail, though it is also messy, and a couple of strands was loose. He fancied that he could smell her shampoo – surprisingly unsynthetic, unlike most women (and men) nowadays – and the faint smell of the rain and the suburbs on her. 

“You know,” She started, breaking the silence. “If you’re thinking of kissing me now, it’s going to be a new cliché record for you.” 

He laughed until he was quite breathless. She could always read his mind, 0.5 seconds before he could even read it himself. She doesn’t just smell like the rain and the suburbs, she also smelled of home, wherever it is now, with just a faint hint of the scorching Mediterranean sun (ironically, he mused) and the forest. The forests where they used to roam, back in the old days, wild and free and immortal. Briefly he wondered what are they now, in this large and lonely city, but before the thought could take complete hold of him, he leaned over and kissed her. 

She gave him her ghost of a smile when they break apart, breathless, and she kissed him in turn. They spent quite a bit of time like that, ignoring the world around them, standing there kissing and laughing.

“Where are we going now? I thought that we’re going to the bar.” She finally said, after a serene, comfortable silence falls between them. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He lamented, bringing a hand to his temple. “Change of plans. We’re going back to my place. We’ve got to give you some fresh, non-wet clothes first.”

“Does that mean I get to wear your favourite band tee?” She lets him led the way this time, putting an arm around his shoulder. Her smile was wide and dangerous and extra-friendly and he didn’t like it.

“What?” He protested immediately, going around a puddle. “No, no. You can wear My Chemical Romance, but that’s about it, sis.” 

“And what if I _accidentally_ got it wet too?” She still had that smile on, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. He started to regret this whole going to his place first thing. Maybe he should just turn around and let her prance around in her dripping wet clothes. It’s not too late for that. Besides, it’s her fault, right? Right?

“I’ll set fire to your bow collection.”

“And I’ll burn your favourite Beatles record.” She was smug. He scowled. “The one you got in an auction in 1982…”

“Okay, okay, fine.” He rolled his eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time today. “You get to wear my Fall Out Boy t-shirt. American _psycho_.” As if to further deliver his badly referenced insult home, he gave her a withering glare.

“Now that’s more like it.” She patted his arm with a positively devilish smile-that-is-not-quite-a-smile-because-it-is-Artemis. “Now let’s come home.”


End file.
